Randall takes her hand and she squeezes his, making a small noise and taking her hand back to quickly remove her unwieldy rollers. Leaving the cans in a pile on her bed, she climbs down the bed with a grace that belongs to couture and red bottom shoes, not a prison uniform. On her feet, she's only as tall as he is sitting down. There's a brief pause as she goes to her shelf, reaching into a tiny gap in the back, where she stores her most precious contraband.
Drugs and hooch and the little luxuries have nothing on her blade. Stolen from the trash after a paring knife broke while she was on kitchen duty, it's been lovingly cleaned and cared for, the way one might treasure jewels. She can't incorporate it into a glove, but she can use it just as easily. It gleams between her fingers when she comes back. ]
Stop me if you feel weak. I wouldn't want to lose you.
[ Which is true. Randall Flagg is a friend, and she doesn't exactly have "get thrown in SHU for life" on her to-do list. She plants her knees on the bottom bunk, straddles his lap without much aplomb and wraps her arms around his shoulder, nose pressed to the crook of his neck. ]
You smell good. Copper-y, though. Have you been angry recently, dear? [ Her hand snakes up and she slices quickly, effortlessly, in the right place to get a steady flow without touching his artery. She would love to coat herself in a spray of blood but it's unfortunately not a practical thing to do, and certainly not the right person.
Countess latches to the wound like a leech, expecting him to converse while she drinks. ]
no subject
Randall takes her hand and she squeezes his, making a small noise and taking her hand back to quickly remove her unwieldy rollers. Leaving the cans in a pile on her bed, she climbs down the bed with a grace that belongs to couture and red bottom shoes, not a prison uniform. On her feet, she's only as tall as he is sitting down. There's a brief pause as she goes to her shelf, reaching into a tiny gap in the back, where she stores her most precious contraband.
Drugs and hooch and the little luxuries have nothing on her blade. Stolen from the trash after a paring knife broke while she was on kitchen duty, it's been lovingly cleaned and cared for, the way one might treasure jewels. She can't incorporate it into a glove, but she can use it just as easily. It gleams between her fingers when she comes back. ]
Stop me if you feel weak. I wouldn't want to lose you.
[ Which is true. Randall Flagg is a friend, and she doesn't exactly have "get thrown in SHU for life" on her to-do list. She plants her knees on the bottom bunk, straddles his lap without much aplomb and wraps her arms around his shoulder, nose pressed to the crook of his neck. ]
You smell good. Copper-y, though. Have you been angry recently, dear? [ Her hand snakes up and she slices quickly, effortlessly, in the right place to get a steady flow without touching his artery. She would love to coat herself in a spray of blood but it's unfortunately not a practical thing to do, and certainly not the right person.
Countess latches to the wound like a leech, expecting him to converse while she drinks. ]